


is your button fly a metaphor

by rivers_bend



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Music RPF, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M, Summer of Like, band famlies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:50:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivers_bend/pseuds/rivers_bend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for the prompt: Pete is always his own worst enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	is your button fly a metaphor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akamine_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/gifts).



> thank you to akamine_chan for the wonderful prompt, romantical for her beta work, and anoneknewmoose for much-needed early cheerleading :D

Warped, in Pete Wentz’s opinion, is aptly named. It’s hot, smelly, loud, exhausting, and weird as fuck, but a nine-to-five would kill him, so he’s glad this is his world. It’s earlyish in the day on a Tuesday—he’s pretty sure, though Wednesday is also a possibility—and My Chem’s bus reeks of burned popcorn and something that Frank claims is victory but Pete’s pretty sure is bean farts. Pete’s trying to concentrate, but the ambiance in general, and Mikey Way in particular, are very distracting, and if he doesn’t get a grip soon he’s gonna add burned hair to the mix, which will only make things worse. But even with the discomforts, there is nowhere in this mobile village of sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll that Pete would rather be. 

He’s perched awkwardly on the back of the bench seat in the lounge, with Mikey leaning back between his spread thighs, so Pete can straighten his hair. Mikey won’t even let his _brother_ touch his hair, and Mikey lets his brother do anything, so right now Pete feels like a god. And like a little kid about to break his mother’s best china the first time he’s allowed to eat off it. 

“Don’t burn me,” Mikey says, but he doesn’t stop rubbing Pete’s ankles with his thumbs, up and down, up and down, bumping over the bone, digging in a little when he gets to the bottom of the stroke like he thinks Pete’s holding all his tension there or something. 

“I won’t,” Pete says, and holds the straightener and comb at arms’ length, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head a few times, like a basketball player gearing up to make a free throw. But Pete might burn him. He’s burned himself a couple times, and this would probably work better if he were in front of Mikey and could see what he was doing. Except then he wouldn’t have Mikey’s shoulders forcing his legs wide, and Mikey would be looking at the chub that’s threatening to hit tent status at any moment, and Pete’s told himself over and over he’s not gonna get Mikey involved in that. 

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises, hoping hard as he can that just this once, that’s not a lie. 

*

 

Even though everyone knows heat rises, there was a rumor going around that it was cooler on the top of the buses, as long as you waited ’til the sun had been down a while. Something about breezes and Pete doesn’t even know what, but it’s a lie, whatever the argument was. He and Mikey are sweating onto the blanket they dragged up here, and into each other’s palms where they’re holding hands, wordlessly, like that’s a thing guys do when they’re lying under the stars, listening to the constant roving party that’s Warped happening below them. 

Pete wants to tell Mikey things, turn his head and whisper secrets into his ear, but he can’t find words that make sense in the press of Mikey’s bare arm against his, the tangle of their fingers. _I think about you fucking me_ , he almost says, but Mikey doesn’t want to hear that. _When you laughed at Frank’s stupid joke earlier, I was picturing shoving my dick in your mouth._

“This is nice,” Mikey says. Nice is the last thing Pete feels. “Quieter, even if it isn’t cooler.” 

“Quieter,” Pete agrees. What if he rolled over and kissed Mikey on the mouth? Would it be quieter then? Or would Mikey shove him off, shout at him, make enough noise to capture the attention of the drunken revelers below? Pete dares to look at Mikey’s face. The moon is reflecting off his glasses, and Pete wants to take them off and look at Mikey’s eyes. Instead, he closes his own and squeezes Mikey’s hand a little tighter. 

*

 

Mikey’s watching Fall Out Boy’s set from side of stage tonight, or at least he was when they started. Pete hasn’t taken his eyes off Patrick since the second song. Patrick is safe. Pete’s already fucked up with him every way he could think of and a couple hundred he never thought out first at all, and Patrick’s still here. Patrick tells him no. Patrick doesn’t expect Pete to be the one who knows where to stop. 

The crowd is loud and rowdy, singing and shouting, bouncing off each other and the barricades, and Pete gets higher and higher on their energy, high enough that he can risk a glance in Mikey’s direction without feeling the urge to do something stupid like pull him out on stage and declare his love into the mic in front of God and everyone. 

“Raaaaaaahhhhhh!” he screams instead, when Mikey’s looking back at him, his face open and happy, his t-shirt one of Pete’s, and how did Pete not notice that before?

There’s no mic near him, but Patrick hears him anyway, looks over, then takes a few steps to the side so he’s close enough for Pete to lean on if Pete needs to. Pete doesn’t need to, but he wants to, so he swings his bass up to his hip and tips his face into Patrick’s neck, listening to the music through his skin until it feels like it’s anchored to his bones again. The crowd roars back, and Pete spins away, drops to his knees and points his bass to the sky.

*

 

End of the set, Mikey’s still there. Still there once Pete’s handed off to the techs, poured a bottle of water over his head and rubbed his face dry on a t-shirt that says “Does the Pope shit in the woods?” that he found draped over a mic stand. He’s still there, still smiling, still looking at Pete. 

“Great show,” he says, taking the shirt out of Pete’s hand and putting it back where Pete found it. “You busy right now?” 

They’re on fucking tour. Pete’s always busy and Pete’s never busy. Never too busy for Mikey, anyway. “Nah,” he says. “You got something in mind?” 

With both hands, Mikey reaches for one of Pete’s and pulls him out of the tent, backing slowly, like he thinks maybe Pete’s gonna balk. “I’m coming,” Pete says. “Wherever it is.” 

That gets him an even wider smile. “You’ll like it,” Mikey assures him. They’re past the backstage crowd now, and Mikey goes from pulling to holding Pete’s hand like they were the night on the roof of the bus. Like he just wants to, doesn’t have an agenda with it. 

“If you say so, Mikeyway,” Pete says, and he means it. He can’t imagine not liking something Mikey wanted him to like. 

They walk past the fence around the grounds, walk some more until the only light is coming from the moon. Mikey holds his hand, rubbing his thumb along the edge of Pete’s palm, tugging him sometimes so Pete can’t help bumping his shoulder into Mikey’s arm. He talks about the set, and about My Chem’s set, and the band he’d watched while Pete was doing sound check, and the latest joke Frank played on Bob. Pete talks back, answering Mikey’s questions, wondering a little if they’re gonna walk forever. Right up to the Canadian border and beyond, until they get to a land where the sun doesn’t set until winter.

Pete spots a shape up ahead just as Mikey says, “We’re almost there.” 

It’s not quite the truth, because the thing he spotted is a tumble-down split-rail gate in a rusty barbed-wire fence, and they keep walking once they’ve navigated that, but not very far. When they stop, it’s next to an old concrete watering trough with a steel handpump next to it. “Ta da,” Mikey says, letting go of Pete’s hand to present the trough with a flourish. 

“You can lead a horse to water,” Pete says, because he’s not sure what he’s supposed to say.

Mikey grabs the pump handle with both hands. Even in the moonlight it looks too rusty to work, but Mikey lifts the handle with little difficulty, and it doesn’t take long before water starts pouring off the lip into the trough. “But can you make him take a bath, is the question,” Mikey says. 

“A bath?” Pete looks at the trough more closely. It seems pretty sturdy, even if it looks ancient, and the property doesn’t look like anyone’s done any maintenance in years, and the air is close and muggy still, but Pete’s experienced well water before, and it’s cold as hell. Or the opposite of hell. Whatever. Awfully cold for night-time dipping. 

“It feels really good,” Mikey says, cupping his hand under the stream and flicking some in Pete’s direction. It’s not nearly as cold as Pete was expecting. “Think they must have run it from a well somewhere else on the property, put the pipes pretty close to the surface.” Pete knows fuck all about the economics of digging wells versus laying pipe, but he can’t deny the tepid water feels good on his skin, so he doesn’t really care how it got that way or why. 

“How’d you find this?” Pete asks. There’s a pretty hefty dose of _who showed it to you_ under his words, but he’s pretty sure he keeps the jealousy out of his tone. 

“Frank said something to one of the girls at catering about never getting to take a bath again, and she told him it was here. He and Ray and I came out in Phillip’s truck before soundcheck.”

Pete can’t be jealous of Mikey’s band. They’re family. It’d be like being jealous of his jeans because they get to touch his ass all day. That would be stupid. “Rub a dub dub, three men in a tub?” he says, like a fucking genius. 

“You gonna be my candlestick maker?” Mikey asks. Just for a second, Pete wishes Frank were here, because he’d be able to tell from Frank’s laugh if that was just Mikey acknowledging Pete’s reference, or if it’s Mikey talking about his dick. 

“Heh,” Pete says, and reaches for the pump handle, because it’s not fair to make Mikey fill the whole thing. 

Mikey gives it up and cocks a hip against the trough to watch him work. “Never really thought of you on a farm,” he says after a minute. “You got city boy all over you, but I’m kinda picturing you on a horse right now.” 

“I was on the back of a horse once,” Pete admits. “Mounted officer found me when I gave my mom the slip downtown. I was about five.” 

“That’s a much cuter story than the time I got brought home in the back of a cruiser because I set off a store alarm trying to hide from a pervert who wanted to get his hands on my fifteen-year-old dick.” 

Pete wants to kick that pervert’s face in. He also wants to touch Mikey’s no-longer-fifteen-year-old dick. The warring urges make him feel a little sick. “That enough water?” he asks. Mikey puts a hand in. It’s about eight inches deep, and the trough’s gotta be six feet long, and Pete’s arms are tired. 

“Sure,” Mikey says, and starts peeling off his shirt. 

Pete totally did not think this through. Baths tend to be naked things. Not that Pete has a problem with nudity, but Mikey’s a special circumstance. Mikey’s all the special circumstances. “Oh,” Pete says. He doesn’t mean to, and he hopes that Mikey’ll miss it. But it’s dead silent out here in the middle of nowhere, and Mikey hears him loud and clear. 

Eyes on Pete’s face, Mikey reaches around him to drape his shirt over the top of the pump. He keeps watching as he unbuttons his jeans. Keeps watching as he lowers his zipper and pushes them down off his hips. “You okay?” he finally asks when Pete hasn’t blinked or breathed since Mikey started stripping. 

“Yeah,” Pete manages. “You?”

“Be better when I’m not the only dude standing here in his underwear,” Mikey says. At that, Pete tears his eyes away from Mikey’s face and realizes that Mikey’s wearing a pair of too tight, wash-greyed briefs. The kind that will probably go see-through once they’re wet. But it is nice of him to consider that Pete might not be ready for naked bath sharing yet. 

“Yeah,” Pete says again. “Yeah.” His hands go obediently to the hem of his shirt, but he can’t make his arms work to take it off. Mikey’s seen him shirtless before. But Pete was walking around that way, plenty of other people there. He hadn’t taken his shirt off with Mikey watching. 

“I’m getting in,” Mikey says. “You can watch, you can sit down on the ground where you can’t see me and just keep me company, you can go back, or you can join me. Whatever you want.” The thing wasn’t built for people to climb into, so Mikey hikes himself up to sit on the edge then swings his legs around and lowers himself into the water. Pete watches him do it, but keeps his eyes above the water line. 

“I’m being stupid,” Pete says. Understatement of the century. But it breaks his paralysis, and he gets his shirt off and hung over the pump. A glance down reminds him he’s wearing black boxer briefs today, which gives him the push he needs to let his jeans follow the way of his shirt. He leaves them crumpled in the grass, shoes underneath. He eyes the side of the trough, which hits him about rib height. 

“Ray thought he was gonna have to lift Frankie in, but he made it first try.” 

“Fuck off,” Pete says. He can climb into a damn horse trough. Though why the fuck would you make it so high off the ground. Horses’ necks bend. 

It’s actually easier than it looks, and Pete’s in the water before Mikey says anything else. It does feel amazing. Hosepipe showers are not ideal for getting the sweat off. He swishes his feet back and forth, being careful not to kick Mikey, and scoops up water to let it dribble down his chest. “Nice?” Mikey asks, and Pete has to work to keep the groan of pleasure under control when he says yes. 

Mikey smiles and prods Pete’s shin with his toes. “Will it freak you out if I offer to wash your back?” 

Maybe. Probably. The water might be cold enough to keep Pete from getting a boner, but it might not be. Patrick would tell him to stop being a chickenshit. Pete tries his best. “Is that a line, Mikeyway?” Pete has never believed that bullshit about how you shouldn’t answer a question with a question. 

“I did go to a lot of trouble to get you away from prying eyes so I could get in your pants,” Mikey answers, and Pete curses Mikey’s deadpan skills. “But it’s only a line if you want it to be.” That didn’t sound deadpan at all. That sounded serious as a heart attack. 

Because he’s not about to tell Mikey that he’s pretty sure he does want it to be a line, but he can’t make himself believe _Mikey_ wants it to be a line, Pete doesn’t say anything. He does hoist himself up high enough to turn around and present Mikey with his back, and then scoot close enough so Mikey can reach. That puts him between Mikey’s legs, and though the trough seemed wide when he was sitting on his own side, there’s not quite enough room for Pete’s ass and Mikey’s skinny thighs, so they end up with Mikey’s legs half wrapped around Pete’s waist, his ankles resting just above Pete’s knees. 

“I’m cool,” Pete says before Mikey can check in again. He’s not sure if he’s trying to convince Mikey or himself. 

“I can make you cooler,” Mikey says, and scoops what must be a double handful of water over Pete’s shoulders. 

Neither of them say anything for several minutes, and Mikey keeps scooping water over Pete’s back until Pete gives a little shiver, then Mikey starts rubbing, palms flat and fingers spread, slow circles that start up by Pete’s neck and move down, the friction heating his skin and getting the blood pumping through his groin. Just when Pete’s pretty sure he’s going to have to run away even though he really doesn’t want to, Mikey lets more cool water drip soothingly from his fingers, two, three, four handfuls of it before he starts rubbing again. Pete shuts his eyes and breathes. 

That works for two more cycles of Mikey tipping water and rubbing before the clamor starts up in Pete’s head again. “I’m fucked up,” he says, glad Mikey can’t see his face. 

“Not news,” Mikey says, squeezing the knotted muscles at the base of Pete’s neck. He obviously doesn’t get it. 

“No, but,” Pete says, losing his train of thought for a moment when Mikey’s hands slide down his shoulders and squeeze just below the joint. 

“But?” Mikey says. 

“You could be here with anyone you wanted.” 

“Good,” Mikey says, hands trailing down to Pete’s elbows, squeezing again. “That means I can be here with you.” 

“No,” Pete says, trying to pull out of Mikey’s grip so he can turn, explain why Pete’s all wrong for him, but Mikey keeps him facing forward, leans up to him so his face is right by Pete’s ear. 

“If you don’t want to be here with me, you gotta say that,” Mikey says, voice sending a shiver across Pete’s neck. “But if you think you get to decide who _I_ want to be with, that’s not just fucked up, that’s _wrong_.”

“I’m usually wrong,” Pete says, fighting his body’s urge to relax back into Mikey’s arms, pillow his head on the dip above Mikey’s collar bone. 

“And yet I still want to be here with you instead of all those people back there, so maybe we deserve each other.” His grip on Pete’s wrists now, Mikey crosses their arms over Pete’s chest and eases him back. Pete fits just like he imagined he would, and the sharp jut of Mikey’s clavicle is just uncomfortable enough to make this feel real. 

“I’m gonna get all pruney,” Pete murmurs once it feels like words aren’t going to choke him. 

“Yep,” Mikey says. “We’re not careful, we’ll end up looking like Keith Richards.” 

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” With a deep breath in and a slow one out, Pete wills the remaining tension out of his spine, sinking against Mikey’s chest. 

“Me too,” Mikey says, and rests his cheek against Pete’s hair. 

*

 

Later, in his bunk, Pete decides he’s glad he didn’t lose his gay-handjob virginity to Mikey Way in a horse trough. After jerking off with a pillow in his mouth so the rest of the band can’t hear him over the sound of tires eating up the pavement, he admits to himself that he’s _not_ glad he didn’t lose his gay-handjob virginity to Mikey Way at all, though. He’s not sure if that’s a step forward or a step back. His thumb is smeared with spunk that leaked through the sock he was using, so he wipes it on his boxers before he fumbles for his phone and opens a text to Mikey.  
 **If I’d asked u to wuld u’v given me a handie?**

Nothing comes back, and Pete reminds himself that some people sleep, and sometimes Mikey leaves his phone to charge while he plays video games with his bandmates, but maybe Mikey doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to explain that Pete has completely misconstrued everything. Then:  
 **What I meant when I said I wanted in your pants was my hand in your pants on your dick.**

Pete can practically see Mikey’s eyeroll. While he’s typing out his reply—which was gonna be _just checking_ —a second text comes through.  
 **Pls tell me this is you asking**

He deletes _just checking_ and sends  
 **good**

instead, quickly, before he can think better of it. Then adds  
 **I think maybe you should kiss me.**

It feels like forever before a reply comes back, though the time on his phone doesn’t change, so it can’t be that long.  
 **good to see you being right.**

That’s about all the late-night honesty Pete’s feeling up to, so he tells Mikey to sleep tight, and shoves his phone under his pillow, curling on his side like he thinks he might actually get some sleep himself. Patrick’s breathing slow and deep from the bunk below him, and Pete focuses on matching his rhythm. It’s much less dangerous than thinking about making out with Mikey. 

*

 

They pull into the next venue about five in the morning, and Pete still hasn’t slept. He’s been calculating the odds of avoiding anyone related to My Chemical Romance for the next five and a half weeks, and even in a crowd of twenty-thousand, he doesn’t like his chances. 

“Stop thinking,” Patrick mutters from his bunk. 

“I’m not,” Pete says. He doesn’t even try to make it sound like anything but the lie it is. 

There’s a rustle, and a grumble, and then tugging on Pete’s mattress that means Patrick’s climbing in with him. “I don’t need to be cuddled,” Pete says. That sounds like a lie too, and Patrick ignores it. 

“Shut up,” he says, wriggling under the covers, digging his knees into the backs of Pete’s thighs, throwing an arm around his chest. “It’s not as bad as you think it is.” 

_It’s worse,_ Pete wants to say. But Patrick told him to shut up, and Patrick gives pretty good advice. There’s some noise from outside, other people pulling in, a few early risers up and about, but then things get quiet again, and with Patrick still holding on like he can will Pete to sleep if he tries hard enough, Pete finally drifts off. 

*

 

The avoiding works for six hours and twenty-eight minutes after Pete drags his sorry ass out of his bunk. Then Mikey’s there, leaning against the side of Pete’s bus in the dark where Pete doesn’t see him until it’s too late. 

“Hey,” Pete says, his hand going up in a ridiculous little wave. 

“Hey,” Mikey returns, _his_ hand darting out to hook in the waist of Pete’s jeans so he can pull him stumbling to land against Mikey’s hips, where even if he wanted to (he might still want to), Pete can’t pretend this is some girl he can’t stop thinking about. Not with Mikey’s not-girl-ness pressed against his stomach. 

Like they don’t care what Pete has to say about it, Pete’s hands find the curve of Mikey’s ass where it meets his thighs. The grip brings Pete in closer contact with Mikey’s junk, means Mikey lets go his jeans and puts his arms around Pete’s neck instead. Pete’s waiting for someone to walk by, to interrupt and ask them what they’re doing, but Fall Out Boy’s bus is in the last row, three in from the end, and there’s not any passing traffic. 

“I was thinking,” Mikey says, voice low, “that now is the time I should kiss you.”

“Now?” Pete asks, a little tremulous, but not squeaking. 

“Now,” Mikey affirms, slipping his fingers through the hair at the back of Pete’s neck. 

There are so many reasons this is a bad idea, but at this exact moment, Pete can’t think of any of them, so he lets Mikey tilt his face up, lets him bring their lips together. And then, when the world doesn’t spin off its axis, when the bus doesn’t topple over and crush them, he pushes up on his toes, licks past Mikey’s tongue tracing gently at his lips, into the heat of Mikey’s mouth. 

That triggers a chain reaction—Mikey’s grip tightening in Pete’s hair, Pete’s tightening on his ass, and they’re grinding together, Pete riding Mikey’s left thigh, Mikey’s hips twitching against Pete’s abs, one, or maybe both of them making desperate grunts into the other’s mouth. It’s stupid how hot it gets so quickly, like every glance and touch and word exchanged in the last few weeks has been foreplay, like Pete’s had a month-long hardon and it’s finally getting some action. 

“Fuck you,” he says against Mikey’s mouth. “Fuck you, Mikeyway.” Because it wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to get so out of control. But Mikey doesn’t hear him, or doesn’t understand his words, which makes sense, since Pete didn’t stop kissing him to speak, and he just flips them so Pete’s the one against the bus, so he can get more leverage to grind against Pete’s dick, kiss him more deeply, get a hand on the small of Pete’s back so he’s a bow of need bending to Mikey’s will, and shit, Pete’s gonna come like this, whining and sucking on Mikey’s tongue, humping him wantonly against the side of the bus, still a gay-handjob virgin. 

He’s so close, seconds away, his orgasm coiled behind his knees, when Mikey pulls back, gasping. In that moment, it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened in Pete’s life. The sound he makes is horrible, a kicked-puppy whine, and he braces himself for Mikey’s blow, the punch, the spit, the _what the fuck_ that he knows is coming, but Mikey curls against him, hands fisted in the t-shirt at Pete’s waist, forehead pressed tight to Pete’s neck, and he’s begging. 

“Please, Pete, please, let me touch you. Just, _please_ —“ like he’s sure Pete’s gonna say no, and like that might kill him off. 

“What?” Pete says, voice cracking on the word. 

“Please,” Mikey says again, punctuates it with a kiss to Pete’s throat. 

“Anything,” Pete whispers. Anything so he can fucking _come_. 

Mikey’s right hand slides across Pete’s stomach and into his jeans as soon as the word passes his lips, then he’s bucking into a tight, sweaty grip that leaves him no room to think about how _anything_ could also mean the way Mikey can turn Pete inside out, wear his guts like a cape, chew chunks out of his heart. 

*

 

Pete wakes up on the floor of the lounge when Joe and Patrick come banging through the door. Mikey's nowhere to be seen, but Pete can still feel dried come sticking to the hair on his belly, so he's pretty sure what he remembers actually happened.  
   
"Saw Gerard," Patrick says. "He asked if I'd seen Mikey. Thought I might find him here."  
   
"No," Pete says. "He. We." He rubs his face. His hand smells like jizz even though he was too fucking scared to touch Mikey's junk. "I fell asleep." 

Shit. He feels like he was drinking, even though he only had a bottle of water after their set. What even _does_ he remember? Just after Mikey'd got him off they heard a noise. Pete couldn't think of the door code for a minute, but Mikey knew it somehow and they'd tripped up the stairs, hadn't even made it to the sofa before Mikey fell on him, nosing under his ear, murmuring something Pete couldn't catch, his own hand working at his fly. And Pete had let him, hadn't helped, hadn't even watched, just found Mikey's mouth with his.  
   
He'd thought— Mikey hadn't seemed to mind. Had held Pete close after, Pete's head pillowed on his chest, his fingers carding through Pete's hair. But now he's gone.  
   
"I can see that," Patrick says, and he's smiling. Joe's smiling too, like Pete hasn't just spectacularly fucked up everything.  
   
"I don't know where he—“ Pete says, interrupted by the chirping of Patrick's phone.  
   
"Never mind. Gee found him. Guess he finally answered his texts."  
   
Pete wonders how long ago Mikey left. He doesn't even have a clue what time it is now, or how long they were— doing whatever they were doing.  
   
"Anyone else want a beer?" Joe asks, heading for the fridge. Patrick shakes his head, but Pete can't decide if he should have one or not. Joe doesn't wait around for him to make up his mind, coming back and taking the chair, leaving an empty space on the couch next to Patrick, and maybe Pete should get off the damn floor.  
   
His phone buzzes in his pocket as he's half-way up, and he nearly falls on his ass again, but Patrick grabs his elbow and hauls him in. "You're jumpy as fuck," he says. "What's up?"  
   
"Nothing," Pete answers. He's not ready to talk about it.  
   
Patrick leans against him, but looks in Joe's direction, leaving Pete some privacy to check his phone. It’s from Mikey.  
 **Gee needed me. I can come back later if you want, or you can come here. Had fun.**  
   
"Bad news?" Joe asks out of nowhere.  
   
"Who?" Patrick says.  
   
"Pete looks like that text was bad news."  
   
"I don't," Pete says, schooling his face into something different than whatever Joe is seeing.  
   
"You kinda do," Patrick points out.  
   
"I think maybe I'll take that beer," Pete says, and runs his fingers over the words of Mikey's text. Patrick stands up to get it for him.  
   
Pete wants to see Mikey. He always wants to see Mikey. But he's not sure he can face him. He thumbs the key lock, shoves his phone back in his pocket, and takes a gulp of the beer Patrick handed him.  
   
"No more naps on the floor, dude," Joe says. "You look like shit."  
   
Pete lifts his bottle in salute. "Thanks."  
   
He's taking a second gulp, bigger than the first, when Patrick's phone chirps again. Pete's gotta get it away from him and change his text alert; it's annoying as hell.  
   
"Mikey wants to know if you're still asleep," Patrick says. "Since when do you ignore texts from Mikey?"  
   
"Not ignoring him," Pete says. Patrick gives him his _don't give me that bullshit_ look, and even Joe looks skeptical. "I'm not," Pete says, pushing himself off the couch. "Me and this beer are going for a walk."

*

 

Mikey finds him doing shots with two of Dropkick Murphy’s roadies. It’s possible Pete’s got most of a bottle of Jack and half a bottle of Jose in his system, but it might be more. There are a lot of bottles on the table between the lawn chairs, and Pete’s not really up to doing the math that would subtract what was there before from what’s there now. 

“S’up,” Pete says, toasting to Mikey’s health and slamming back whatever’s in his glass. 

“You,” Mikey says, taking the chair one of the dudes whose names Pete’s forgotten shoves in his direction with a toe. “‘Trick said you went for a walk.” 

“Walked,” Pete agrees. “Now’m here.” He tries to drink his shot again, but his glass is empty. 

“You drinkin’?” The roadie who didn’t give Mikey a chair asks. 

“Course I’m drinking,” Pete says, before he realizes that the guy was talking to Mikey. 

“Nah,” Mikey tells him, hefting the bottle of coke he’s holding. “I’m good.” 

“I’m an asshole,” Pete says to the group at large. 

“Why don’t we go for another walk?” Mikey says. 

“He’s cool,” the guy on Mikey’s left says. “You don’t gotta take him.” 

“Yeah, Mikey,” Pete says, his mouth wandering off without him. “You don’t gotta take me.” 

“I don’t gotta do shit,” Mikey agrees, all mild-mannered like Clark fucking Kent. “But why don’t you come with me anyway?” 

“Don’t need a babysitter,” Pete says, stubbornly holding his ground. “I’m a big boy.” 

Mikey nods a little, but doesn’t say anything, and uses both hands to push himself out of the low lawn chair. He gives Pete a look that Pete’s pretty sure he should be able to read. He can’t. 

“Thanks for the hospitality,” Mikey says to the roadies. “Later, Wentz,” he says to Pete. In the time it takes Pete to open his mouth, Mikey’s disappeared between the buses. 

“What’s a guy gotta get a drink to do around here?” Pete asks, holding his glass out to be refilled. 

 

The next thing he knows, he’s lying half under his own bus, puking into his hands. 

*

 

It’s almost two days before he sees Mikey again. In the mean time he has a hose turned on him by his own band, he pukes two more times, and he has to listen to a lecture given by Patrick about how he’s the biggest jerk to ever walk the earth, like this is fucking _news_ or something. Like he doesn’t _know_ why Mikey’s not drinking right now, doesn’t know what happened with Gerard, doesn’t know that it’s a dick move to stick your tongue in a guy’s mouth and then accuse him of trying to babysit you when he wants to hang out again. 

Pete tries to get his band to leave him at the venue of his eternal shame and go on without him, but no one will listen. Andy and Joe each take an arm and a leg and carry him onto the bus while Patrick guards the door so he can’t get out again. _And_ they take his phone away. Pete doesn’t know if Patrick turned it off or if no one’s trying to get ahold of him, and he won’t give Patrick the satisfaction of asking. 

“I hate you all,” Pete yells from his bunk where he’s been sent to rest, apparently, though the way Patrick says it, Pete’s pretty sure he’s supposed to be _thinking about what he’s done._

The hate feeling is apparently not mutual, because someone convinces the driver to stop and get pizzas, and Pete gets first pick when the smell lures him from his bed. They eat, and then they’re parking and helping with gear, and Patrick still won’t give his phone back, though he does promise to tell Pete if there’s a message that he needs to know about, and Pete pretends that the whole drinking ’til he blacked out thing never happened. 

 

It’s Frank who comes and finds him, and he looks pretty pissed. “I know,” Pete says before Frank can say anything. 

“You pull that shit again, and they will _never_ find the body,” Frank tells him. “ _Never_.” 

“I’m sorry,” Pete says. 

“I’m not the one you should be apologizing to.” Frank’s a tiny fucker, but Pete has no doubt that he could fuck up anyone’s shit if he put his mind to it. 

“I know,” Pete says again. He knows. “Patrick took my phone.” 

“You don’t wanna apologize over text.” 

“No,” Pete says. Even though, _yes_ , because he can’t bear the thought of Mikey’s disappointed face. “But I could use it to arrange where to meet him.” 

“He’s on our bus. Ray and Bob and, most importantly, Gerard, are out. I can take you.” 

Pete doesn’t want to be taken. But he’d also rather hear that Mikey doesn’t ever want to see him again without Gerard there to editorialize, or Bob to give him a black eye. “Okay,” he says, not sounding enthused, but not sounding as defeated as he feels either. 

They have to walk through half the parking lot to get there, and Frank doesn’t say another word the whole time. When they get to the door, Frank enters the code then steps aside, planting a hand in the middle of Pete’s back like he thinks Pete might bolt. Pete totally might. 

“Never find the body,” Frank whispers, and gives Pete a shove. 

*

 

The bus is cool after the noon sun. It takes a minute for Pete’s eyes to adjust, and when they do, he finds Mikey sitting at the table in the kitchen watching him, one of Gerard’s sketchbooks under his fingers.

“Hi,” Pete says. 

“Lemme guess. Frank?” 

“He’s pretty scary.” 

“You do not know the half of it,” Mikey says. “You don’t want to find out.” 

“I was an asshole,” Pete admits, still standing at the top of the steps, hopefully not looking too much like a flight risk.

“Not gonna argue.” Mikey brushes a thumb over something on the page in front of him, then closes the sketch book and pushes it to one side. “You want to sit?” he asks. 

The answer to that is more complicated than Pete’s prepared to deal with, so he sits on the opposite bench, the table between them. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, Pete.” Mikey doesn’t reach out to touch him. Pete’s a little surprised at how much he wants him to. 

“I’ve never,” Pete says. He runs his forefinger along the spiral of the sketchpad, letting it bump from wire to wire until he reaches the end. “I’ve always had— It was always to prove a point.” 

Mikey’s lips go pinched. “What was to prove a point?” 

“Before you. I never just wanted.” Pete can’t do this. “I can’t do this,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Mikey says. “You don’t really have a choice.” 

Pete shoves his hair off his face, grinds his palms into his eye sockets. “I fucking want you, Mikeyway. Okay? Like, not because I’m sick of all the homophobic assholes, but just because.” 

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Mikey says, but his mouth is softer now. More forgiving. 

“I know.” The words hurt, in his chest, in his throat. “I know. I don’t— I’m— I’m not used to being scared.” Which is a huge fucking lie. Pete’s scared _all the time_. He’s twisted and broken, and terrified of letting people down. But he’s not used to being scared like this. This is different, and he doesn’t have the remotest idea how to understand why, much less explain it to Mikey, so this is the best he can do. 

“It’s not like—“ Mikey bites the edge of his lower lip, then twists the bitten area with his forefinger and thumb. “I’m not exactly Mr. Gay Sexcapades either. You’re kind of— I’m just doing what feels good. It’s intense. This. You. I don’t have a playbook or anything.” 

The words hit like a jet of water from a hose, and Pete would know. “But I thought—“ he says, after staring with his mouth open for far too long. 

“You thought?” 

“You give really good hand jobs,” Pete says. 

Mikey shrugs, a small smile flirting with one side of his mouth. “I’ve spent a lot of time playing with myself.” 

Pete plays that back in his head. “Wait,” he says. “I’m the first?” 

“The first guy?” Mikey says, repeating his little shrug. “Yeah.” 

The fucking table between them has got to go. Pete stands up and invades Mikey’s side, squeezing in until he’s mostly sitting on Mikey’s lap, ignoring how the table edge is digging into his ribs. “So you’re a gay-handjob virgin,” he says. 

“Pretty sure I gave you a hand job the other night.” Mikey leans back as far as he can so he can look Pete in the eye, but he’s got a hand on Pete’s hip, and the other on his thigh just above his knee, and Pete takes that as a good sign. 

“No. I mean. You’ve never had one. From a guy.” 

“Yeah,” Mikey says. “Somebody didn’t deliver.” The words are said without bite, but they still sting a little. Guilt is Pete’s forevergirl. 

“I could deliver now,” Pete says. And then, when he realizes he means it one-hundred percent, “Really. No running away this time.” 

Mikey looks at him consideringly, hands still on Pete’s hip and thigh. “Did Frank say when he was coming back?” 

“We could hang a sock on the door? The wing mirror maybe?” 

“Fuck it,” Mikey says. “They can knock.”

It’s not as easy to get out from behind the table as it was to get in, and it wasn’t that easy to get in, but after some wiggling and at least three bumps to Pete’s side that are going to bruise, they escape. After deciding the sofa’s too narrow and the bunks are too small, they end up on the floor again. Only this time, Pete’s on top of Mikey, hands framing his face, dropping kisses to his lips, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. 

“Can we take these off?” he asks, touching a fingertip to the corner of Mikey’s glasses. He feels bad that they didn’t last time, like that is the signifier for everything Pete failed to do. 

“Put ‘em on the table,” Mikey says. “Don’t want them to get broken.” 

Pete does as he’s told, but comes right back, settling into Mikey’s arms, slotting their legs together, testing how they fit, and not comparing it to how he’s fit with various girls. Just thinking about how this is Mikey. This is Mikey and this is a thing that sometimes guys do. 

A finger on his cheek pulls Pete out of his head to find Mikey looking at him with bright eyes and an amused twist to his mouth. “You going to stare at me all day, or can I get a kiss?” he asks. 

“Kiss,” Pete says, and he does it. 

They start out slow, Pete testing the texture of Mikey’s lips with his own, hands cradling his head, brushing strands of Mikey’s hair off his face with gentle thumbs, and it doesn’t make him feel as crazy as the kiss against the bus. It’s good, but it doesn’t make him feel like his skin’s on fire. 

Until he moves to kiss along the line of Mikey’s jaw, and Mikey moans, high and thin and soft, and murmurs, “Think about this all the time, fuck,” and Pete pictures it—the horse trough, the bus roof, the two of them navigating the crowds with Mikey’s finger hooked in one of Pete’s belt loops so they don’t get separated, texting from bus to bus—all the time they were together, Mikey _wanting_ Pete. 

That makes it hard for him to breathe, so Pete rests his forehead against Mikey’s shoulder for a second, which gives him a view down to where Mikey’s gay-handjob-virgin hips are rocking against Pete’s thigh. He could do something about that. “You’re hot,” he says, because Mikey is, and now seems like a good time to say it. 

“Heh,” Mikey huffs, breathless. “You too.” His hands are roaming up and down Pete’s back, tugging his t-shirt, but not going under it to get at Pete’s skin. 

Rolling off Mikey enough to give himself some room, Pete does some roaming of his own, his right hand stroking down Mikey’s chest, stopping to squeeze his waist. He kind of wants to stay there forever, feeling the give of Mikey’s skin, so before he can forget his goal, he palms the bulge of Mikey’s crotch. It’s not as scary as he thought it would be. Isn’t actually scary at all. It feels pretty much like adjusting himself when he’s hard, only it comes with Mikey making gorgeous breathy noises that turn the fuck out of Pete’s crank. 

“Oh,” Pete says, rolling his hand across Mikey’s length, then slipping his fingers down to feel his balls. 

“You make me really hard,” Mikey points out, like he’s making an excuse. Or maybe like Pete hadn’t noticed. 

“I noticed,” Pete says, sounding almost as happy about it as he feels. Which is a lot. “I really like it.” He never ever expected to _like_ it this much. “I can— You’re not gonna change your mind about me touching it, are you?” 

Mikey huffs again. “You fucking kidding me? Get it out already.” 

Pete can do that. 

Sort of. Mikey’s jeans are really tight, and new or something, because they are resisting one-handed access. “Help a guy out?” Pete says. His left arm is holding him up, and isn’t available for button duties. 

“It’s a good thing I never thought you were slick, Wentz,” Mikey says, grinning as he helps Pete get his pants open. 

Pete was expecting more wash-grey briefs, or maybe a pair of the boxers he’s seen riding above Mikey’s waistband sometimes, but either Mikey’s out of laundry or he was hoping to get lucky, because once they get his fly undone, Pete has a handful of cock. Hot, hard, not-his cock. What the fuck is he doing. 

“You can move your hand,” Mikey says, low and a little strained, like he’s trying to sound conversational, but someone’s got a grip on his dick. 

“Yeah,” Pete says. “Yeah. I can— Fuck, Mikey.” 

“Maybe we can leave that for next time.” 

Or the time after that. Pete’s pretty sure fucking is advanced studies. He’s still working the remedial courses here. But he laughs just enough to let Mikey know he’s still with him, and reminds himself that this is _not_ the first time he’s had his hand on a dick. The shape’s a little different and the angle’s off, but the theory’s the same. He can totally do this. 

“I can totally do this,” he says. 

“I know.” The way Mikey says it, like he’s not thinking at all of the thousands of ways Pete could fuck this up, is even more terrifying than the sweaty, silky feel of his most delicate skin in Pete’s palm. Pete’s therapist would tell him that he should let it make him feel good. And he’s gonna maybe not think of his therapist right now. 

“Okay,” Pete says, and he starts to move. 

Once he gets going, the rhythm is easy. Mikey rocks up into his grip, setting the pace so Pete doesn’t have to think about it, and after a minute or two, Pete even feels confident enough to split his attention between jerking Mikey’s dick and kissing him. Having Mikey’s fingers tangled in his hair and his tongue in his mouth is oddly soothing. And suddenly Pete gets it. Gets what Mikey was saying about just doing what feels good, not worrying about a playbook. They’re doing this, and Mikey’s making noises like it’s really really awesome, and that makes Pete feel pretty damn amazing.

Not as amazing as when Mikey goes stiff, then starts to jerk against Pete’s chest, gasping, “Shit, fuck, yes,” as he comes, slick and hot, in Pete’s hand. 

“You came,” Pete says, sounding maybe more surprised than he should. 

Mikey just laughs, loud and bright. 

“No,” Pete says. “I mean, I did okay.” 

That makes Mikey laugh more, and stretch up to fasten his teeth around Pete’s left biceps just hard enough to catch Pete’s attention. “You did great,” he says. “And we’re gonna practice. A lot. All the time.” 

“We might have to play our sets, too,” Pete points out. 

“Pfft.” Mikey waves a hand airily. “Who needs bass players?”

“Good point,” Pete says, even though bass players are _totally_ important. 

“Did we get jizz on the carpet?” Mikey asks. 

Pete looks around. “I don’t think so,” he says. “But you might need to change your shirt.” 

“Might as well get it messier first,” Mikey says, reaching for Pete’s crotch. 

Pete thinks that sounds like an excellent plan.

*

 

Pete’s supposed to be eating lunch with his band, but he’s somehow followed Mikey to My Chem’s soundcheck, and he’s sitting on the edge of Bob’s riser, arms hugging one leg, chin on his knee, hoping he looks to anyone passing by like he’s casually listening, but probably looking completely smitten with the ridiculously hot bass player strutting back and forth in front of him. 

“Fuck up my ride and I will end you,” Bob bellows, making Pete jump, because he’s pretty sure he’s nowhere near any of Bob’s cymbals, and besides he wasn’t even moving, but then he spies Frank slinking away in the other direction. “Not you, Wentz; you’re cool,” Bob says. Pete feels like he’s glowing. 

At the sound of Pete’s name, Mikey turns and catches his eye, runs his thumb and fingers up and down the neck of his bass the way he likes to do to Pete’s dick, and now Pete’s _actually_ glowing, cheeks red and chest flushed hot. He raises a middle finger in Mikey’s direction, because there’s not going to be time to actually touch Mikey for hours, and he’s an evil, horrible tease. Mikey just smirks. 

“Again!” Gerard calls, and Bob counts off, and Ray and then Mikey then Frank and Gerard come in. Pete’s surrounded by sound, literally vibrating with it, and he closes his eyes. 

When he opens them, Mikey’s watching him, tiny, tight t-shirt Pete’s sure Mikey wore just to torture him riding up and revealing a sweat-damp strip of skin that Pete wants to lick. That Pete _would_ lick if they were alone. He thinks about licking lower. That’s a thing they haven’t done yet, but Pete thinks he might be ready. At the very least he’s ready to think about being ready. Mikey did it to him three days ago, and good times were had by all. 

In a minute, he’s gonna get up and go see if his boys are still eating and if they left him any food. Then he’s gonna come back and watch his boyfriend play to a crowd of kids who would never guess that he’ll come off stage and grope Pete Wentz’s ass, and probably whisper something dirty in his ear. 

And tonight, Pete’s gonna get the blanket out of his bus, and drag it and Mikey up above the crowds, where it might not be cooler, but it will definitely be quieter. And he’s gonna hold Mikey’s hand and look at the stars, and kiss him ’til they’re both breathless. Because that’s a thing that guys do sometimes, when it’s summer, and they’re on tour, and in love.


End file.
